Torque
by whithertits
Summary: Sam wouldn't be who he is today if not for John.  Unrelated!AU, prostitution, watersports.   Sam/Dean


Warnings: prostitution, AU, watersports

_You do what you have to do to get the job done._John's words, not Sam's, but Sam believes them. Lives by them just like John did, like most hunters do.

Most hunters don't take it how John took it, though.

The first time Sam caught John in the act, he didn't know what to think of it. John had been pushing hard all day, music turned down low and pedal to the floor. Sam was young- eleven, maybe twelve. He remembered that he hadn't been riding in the front seat for very long, and how he'd roll the window all the way down and stick his arm out it just because he _could_. They'd been driving since lunch, had gone through a drive-thru for dinner rather than stop; Sam counted more than three motel signs flash by in the painful glare of the setting sun and spent his time wondering why they couldn't just stop for the night, since they wouldn't make it to the town with the zombies until tomorrow.

They stopped just after dark and John hurried in to pay for a room. Sam was out of the car, fidgeting, rocking on his feet as he desperately held in his need to piss, and knew John couldn't have been in any better shape.

So when Sam came out of the bathroom after taking care of his own business and John wasn't there? Sam knew something was up. Sam wasn't a dumb kid; was about as far from a dumb kid as you could get. He wasn't supposed to leave the room without his dad unless it was for school, and they weren't settled in that, so he should have just stayed put. Just like he _should_ stay out of the trunk of the Impala, just like how he wasn't supposed to read John's journal.

Sam's teachers had been telling John his son wouldn't get in so much trouble if he weren't so bright for years. He'd have skipped a grade at least, if John had felt like sticking around in a town long enough to do the paperwork.

The Impala was in the parking space, cooling slowly from the long run of the day, with no sign of John. Sam was careful; he kept low, listened at doorways and peeked in at the corners of the windows to stay out of sight. He heard John before he saw him, the low rumble of his voice easy to pick out from long hours of eavesdropping on John's conversations with other hunters.

"All three of you?" John asked, his voice a low rumble, barely audible through the door. Sam looked at the room number (18, just around the bend of the motel so the room faced the highway instead of the parking lot) and stayed low, thankful for being short for once, since it meant he didn't have to contort himself too badly to crouch under the window. The curtains were closed, but whoever did it hadn't been careful; they'd pulled them too hard toward the center, so that there was a thin bar of the room visible on the right side. Sam looked in and felt his stomach clench.

John was in the room with three nervous looking men. Tension was obvious in the harsh lines of his face and Sam instinctively shrunk in on himself from the expression, even though it wasn't pointed at him. The men were huddled together, and Sam couldn't quite make out their words, though he could hear the low thrum of their voices. One of them broke off from the group and held out his hand to John, determination clear on his face. Sam thought he was offering his hand for John to shake, but instead the man handed John a small stack of bills.

Sam blinked. His dad didn't talk much about how they got their money, but Sam had found the credit cards, was learning how to play pool. A sick twist of suspicion curled in Sam's stomach, and he studied John, looking for some sign of drugs or- or whatever. He didn't want to believe it, but it made sense; they were always on the move, after all, and Sam had no illusions about how John viewed the word of law.

But his dad didn't look any different from he had in the car; no black briefcase, no mystery sacks, nothing. Sam really wished there was, though, because it would have been infinitely preferable to John slipping the cash into his jacket pocket and then unzipping his pants.

John pulled out his penis and held it in a firm, easy grip. He looked familiar with himself, and Sam's face burned when he thought that his dad probably- touched himself. Sometimes. When he was alone in their motel room, just like Sam had started to. This was the _definition_ of too much information.

But still, Sam didn't go back to their room. He just couldn't, had to see how far his dad would go. He wasn't some dumb kid who had to hide from the real world: he could deal.

One by one, the men dropped to their knees in front of John and Sam shifted uncomfortably as his penis decided to take interest. He shifted himself into a more comfortable position and ignored it; he was used to "popping wood" randomly, knew it was normal from how often it happened to the other boys at school. You ignored it and maybe went home and maybe took care of it, or just hoped it went away on its own. _Part of growing up_, John had called it.

With the men on their knees, Sam could only see them from their shoulders up, the rest hidden by the window sill. He wasn't about to move out of position to take a look, since he did _not_ want to get caught. Especially not with a hard-on. _That_ would be hard to explain, even though it didn't mean anything.

His dad, though- his dad wasn't hard. He stepped up to the men and asked them a question, though Sam couldn't make out the words. One of the men answered, and John nodded and stepped back. He planted his feet in a wide-spread stance, penis gripped in one hand, and started to pee.

The stream of piss hit the first man right in the face, but instead of scrambling away or getting mad the man opened his mouth. He looked happy- looked fucking _ecstatic_. John turned his hips, still pissing, and hit the next man in the face, then the next. The first man was rubbing at the slick wet of his face with one hand, and Sam recognized the movements as the guy jerked off.

That was enough for Sam; he didn't need to see any more. He made sure he was quiet as he crept around the corner and then bolted for their room and locked himself inside. He turned the TV on and stopped on an episode of the new _Star Trek_ series. He paid careful attention to the plot, didn't think about what his dad was maybe doing just a few rooms over, and waited for his penis to get soft.

Sam never mentioned it to John, but things got even rockier between them after that. Sam didn't understand—couldn't understand—why his dad would be doing something like that, how it fit into their lifestyle. He didn't think about it too much by the time he was seventeen and on his way to Stanford. The rift between John and himself was bigger than the events of any one night, couldn't be smoothed over by even the so-grand gesture of John giving Sam the Impala. Sam knew he'd never be like his dad.

That's why it pissed him off so much when he and Jess experimented and he found out how fucking _hot_ it was.

Watersports. That's what Jess called it, giving a name to something Sam had been peripherally aware of for his entire adult life. Jess had been a dynamo in the sack, and when she'd asked Sam if he had to pee while they were showering together and then told him to go ahead—well, Sam's mind had maybe blanked  
>out a little from how hot it was. They'd laughed afterwards and made love in their bed, damp and happy. The next day Pastor Jim called him for the first time since he was a teenager and told Sam that his dad was missing.<p>

And then Jess was dead.

Vengeance was an all-consuming task, and Sam spent a few cold nights sleeping in the Impala before he forced himself to send out his own fake credit card applications. He had some savings, but he didn't want to leave a trail. Hustling pool gave him enough for food and gas, but by the fourth night spent twisted around in the back seat, feeling like a fish that had outgrown its tank, Sam knew he'd have to bite the bullet.

He remembered John, standing in that motel room and being handed a stack of bills. He remembered that the next day, John had finally bought him a new pair of sneakers to replace the ones he'd grown out of two states back.

Sam searched local papers for a hunt and then posted a Craigslist ad on the first major city between him and the next hunt. He found somewhere close, because his back wasn't up for another night in the Impala, cold and confined. He wondered how his dad had pulled it off, since the internet hadn't been around when his dad had been—hooking.

Sam found someone who seemed actually interested in a real meet up and was on his way to Omaha.

He did it pretty consistently while he waited for his credit cards to come in and it didn't take long for Sam to learn to set some guidelines. Women, men, that didn't bother him. But the first time Sam knocked on a door and opened it to find a kid that couldn't have been more than sixteen, he made sure to mention that he wouldn't do minors. He didn't want to catch something nasty, so he didn't do contact. If they paid him extra, he'd jerk off on them after he was done; he'd be doing it back in his own room when he got back anyway, and money was money. It didn't make him feel too bad about himself, and it gave him another point in common with his dad, which he was finding he had more and more of. He'd never talk about it with John, but maybe—_maybe_— when Sam found him, they'd be able to put some things to rest.

The credit cards arrived at his PO Box, and money wasn't so tight. Sam stopped posting ads, though he kept checking the account he'd created for it. People were always looking for a bit of kink, and it was pretty easy jerk off material.

Sometimes he still met up with people.

He didn't need the money, but it was a hot, easy way to make some quick cash. He'd buy big bottles of water and drink them as he drove, until the need to piss was uncomfortable, and then he'd meet walk into a hotel room, spread a tarp on the ground, and then let it go all over some random civilian's face. He was working for cash, so he didn't discriminate; men or women, fat or slim, ugly or drop dead gorgeous. The hot ones didn't come along too often; they probably had a long line of people who'd be willing to do anything they wanted. They all reacted the same way to Sam when he opened the door, though; a tight little hitch of breath, hungry eyes, and a fistful of cash. It was nice, having all those people get so worked up over him.

He knows how they feel, when he meets Dean.

Sam's fresh out of Mordechai Murdoch's house and itching for a fight, annoyed at amateurs and people in general. He needs to piss, and he's thinking about going to a bar and picking a fight when he checks his phone and sees an email response to one of his Craiglist posts.

_Subject: M wet work offered, cash only___

_I'm looking for someone TONIGHT. Please only respond if you are available ASAP.___

_972-555-8599_

A man picks up when Sam calls, his voice low—husky—and edged with the kind of desperation Sam has learned can mean a few things. If the guy's spoiling for a fight with a gay dude, Sam's more than willing to oblige. If he actually wants what Sam's offering, well, that's okay, too.

The guy rattles off the address of an actual hotel, which is unusual. Sam wouldn't normally go for something that's guaranteed to have active security, but _safe_ isn't what he's really looking for tonight.

He goes to the hotel. He tells the security desk his name is Hobbes and collects the room key left for him and heads up to the fifteenth floor. From there, it's familiar as classic rock; a long stretch of hallway and a door with an eager presence behind it. He stops in front of 1508, pleased to see it's a corner suite, and knocks on the door.

The door opens, and it's Sam who catches his breath.

The man is _gorgeous_, tall and well defined, the particular details of his face—high cheekbones, bright green eyes, lips that just invite you to fuck them—indescribably beautiful on their own but come together in a way that's better than any individual feature. Sam blinks and leans an arm against the doorframe, making sure he oozes confidence. "You were looking for some company tonight?" he asks, pitching his voice deliberately low.

The guy laughs, the sound strained with that same edge Sam heard over the phone. "Yeah. Fuck. I'm Dean. Can we just—can we just get started?" He steps back into the room and gestures for Sam to come in. He's already got his own tarp down, so Sam drops his bag after he closes the door behind himself.

"My name's Sam." He surveys the room and notes a small suitcase with mild surprise; there's a book on the night table next to the TV remote, and he can just see a toothbrush on the washroom counter. The guy's actually staying in the hotel room.

Dean pulls off his shirt, and his chest, complete with six pack and coated in a light rain of freckles, shines golden in the lamplight. His pants are next, and he tosses both into the space between the two queen sized beds without a care. Sam resists the urge to pick them up, long habits formed from a childhood growing up in rooms just like this one. Dean's wearing a tight grey pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs, the name written brazen and obvious over the elastic. They're short, and Dean's cock bulges out them, the lowest point of the cloth. Sam can see that Dean's half hard already, and there's a small dark spot low down where the head of Dean's cock is. Sam looks his fill, because he's going to be jerking off to this memory for months, easy.

"Well?" Dean asks. He doesn't move onto the tarp, just stands beside it with his arms crossed over his chest. His face is still pretty even with the sour expression, but it's the anxiety that Sam can see underneath it that really gets his attention.

Sam unbuttons his own shirt and shrugs it off, then strips out of his own t-shirt. Dean barely blinks at the reveal, though his eyes roam over Sam once, perfunctorily. "It's two hundred cash," Sam says. He undoes the top button of his jeans and gestures for Dean to step onto the tarp. "If you want me to jack off afterwards, that's another hundred. No contact."

Dean bends down and digs into his pants then pulls out a stack of twenties. He doesn't bother counting before he hands them to Sam, and Sam's handled enough cash to know there's more than three hundred in the stack. He doesn't count it, but tucks the money into his back pocket and notes that Dean's hands are shaking.

Dean drops down to his knees in the center of the tarp and bows his head, spreads his knees apart. Sam can just see the soles of Dean's bare feet over his shoulders, clean and pink. They curl inward, the gesture strangely vulnerable. Sam turns his attention back to Dean and steps close enough to touch. He rests his hand on top of Dean's head. "You gonna leave those on?" he asks softly.

Dean lets out what sounds like an aborted sob and nods. He lifts his arms up and slides his palm flat against the top of his back, so his whole body is open and on display for Sam. There's strength in his arms, though it's the chiselled perfection of a fitness nut, instead of the strength born of physical activity like Sam has developed. His skin is a light, golden tan, and the freckles are everywhere; arms, chest, face. They're cute, and add a nice touch of realism to a face that's almost too perfect to be real. His eyes are closed, lashes a dark crescent against the golden skin of his cheeks.

Sam clenches his hand on Dean's head and notes that the guy's hair is full of product; it makes his hand feel dirty. "You got a preference for where I aim?"

Dean shudders and tilts his head up into Sam's grip and opens his eyes. They really are the true green Sam had caught sight of at the door, bright as new leaves. "Face," Dean said. He bit his bottom lip and it turned a brighter shade of pink, shining with spit in the low light. "Chest. Cock." His eyes fell closed again. "I want to be drenched. Want to be ruined."

Sam's cock stirs at Dean's words, but he focuses his attention on the burn in his bladder instead of his arousal. He can't piss if he'd hard, more's the shame. He tugs Dean's hair once, a reminder to keep his face tilted toward Sam, then releases him and steps back. Dean keeps his arms up and opens his eyes to watch, so Sam makes it a show. He undoes the buttons on his jeans and pushes them down his hips just a little, so they ride low. He's not wearing any boxers, and scratches lazily at his pubes, and then drops his hands into his pants and pulls his cock out.

Dean's eyes go wide, and Sam can actually see his pupils dilate. A flush crawls up Dean's neck to stain his cheeks a bright pink, and he bites at his bottom lip again. Sam knows the look; he's hungry for Sam's cock.

Sam has a great cock. It's something he's known since he was a kid, stripping quickly in PE. Guys couldn't help but comment, either to compliment him or to attack, insecure as only teenagers could be. He's long- not ridiculously so, but even though Sam's never measured he's sure it's no longer than eight inches. But he's thick, even when he's soft. He's a shower, more than a grower, and Sam's pretty sure his cock would win Best In Show nine times out of ten. Jess had a tendency to go on drunken rambles in praise of Sam's dick, much to her girlfriends' delight. Sam's, too, really.

He's not cut, and he's soft, so he pulls back his foreskin to show the dark flare of his cockhead. Dean's eyes zero in and he actually moans. He shivers, all the way through his body, and his cock bulged out obscenely against the confinement of his shorts, fully hard now. Yeah, Sam's going to remember this one for a long time.

Sam plants himself firmly, legs shoulder width apart, and relaxes his shoulders. His bladder is full, aching. It occurs to him that he hasn't chugged water like he usually would for one of his sessions, that his piss is going to be extra acidic, is going to stink up the room. He lets his eyes fall closed and then opens them to stare at Dean's face, so open and eager, his mouth hanging open in absentminded lust.

Dean's eyes fall closed and Sam lets himself go. He's got a full tank, and the first stream his Dean square in the eye. He aims his cock up, so Dean's hair gets wet, and then points his cock and aims at Dean's chest, and then down at Dean's cock, drenching his grey briefs a dark colour. Dean gasps and arches back, elbows high and chest thrust forward. The room fills with the smell of ammonia, and Sam finishes off by raising the stream back to Dean's face. His piss runs off Dean in yellow rivulets that trace the hollows of his muscles.

Sam stops himself before he's quite finished. "You can open your eyes now," he says quietly.

Dean's eyes drift open and he stares up at Sam drunkenly. He sways on his knees and throws his head back, and a low whimper escapes from his throat. Sam's cock hardens at the sight, so fast that Sam can actually _feel_ the blood rushing south. He thinks about the condoms in his bag, and he doesn't go for them. He steps closer, so he's standing in a puddle of his own urine, and brushes his fingers over Dean's cheek. It's wet.

"You've been such a good boy," he says, and can't help the pang he feels as Dean's face breaks open at his words, vulnerable and desperate for validation. "If you want, you can suck me." He cups Dean's cheek and runs his thumb under Dean's eyes, which close, then down and into Dean's mouth. Dean's tongue brushes against the pad of his thumb and he groans, the sound low and hungry. He nods desperately and rocks forward on his knees, arms still held awkwardly upward. Sam pushes Dean's elbows down and moves Dean's hands to rest over his hip bones. "Like this, that's a good slut." It doesn't feel wrong, calling Dean a _slut_ even though Sam's getting paid. Dean's practically gagging on his need, Adam's apple bobbing wildly as he swallows.

Dean's fingers tighten on his hips and he opens his eyes and stares up at Sam. His eyes shine wetly and tears overflow from them, but Sam recognizes it as catharsis, not pain. For whatever reason, Dean needed this, and Sam was more than willing to provide. He's drenched with sweat and piss and tears, and he looks happy for the first time since Sam came in. Looks hopeful.

Sam grips his hard cock in a loose grip and slaps Dean with it, just hard enough that he can hear the wet smack of skin on skin. Dean lets his mouth hang open, soft, just waiting for the moment when Sam decides to fuck it. He delays, gives Dean's cheek another dull slap, and then rubs it over Dean's cheeks, forehead, nose. Dean leans into it happily, eager little motions. It's just about enough to drive Sam crazy. He holds his cock so the head rests in the hollow of Dean's philtrum. A bead of precome swells in his slit and he rubs it into Dean's skin with his cock, so Dean can't help but breath in the smell of his sex. Dean's fingernails dig into his hips and Sam watches his hips fuck desperately at the air.

Dean purses his lips and the motion engulfs the head Sam's cock, and just like that, he's in.

His mouth really is made for fucking. His lips spread easily over Sam's cock, pink like they're going to stain it with lipstick, and he pushes down until his lips touch on Sam's foreskin and then he runs his tongue in a slow drag over Sam's slit. He keeps his eyes locked on Sam's as he pushes himself down, and down, and down. Sam can feel the back of Dean's throat and almost pulls back, but Dean just pulls his hips closer and opens his throat, and right there. Deep throats Sam.

"Fuck," Sam gasps, and tangles his hands into Dean's hair, keeps Dean's head held flush against his own body. Dean's throat works around the head of his cock as Dean swallows around him, but Sam can feel the faint puff of air against his pubes as Dean breathes through his nose. The man's a cock sucking _master_, and it's only with reluctance that Sam loosens his hold so Dean can draw back. It took Jess almost a year before she could take Sam's cock like that, and no one's done it since.

Dean works his cock like a pro. He sucks hard as he pulls off of Sam's cock, makes a great impression of a Hoover when his lips are wrapped around his crown, like he can literally suck the come out of Sam's balls like his cock's a straw. His cock helpfully gives another spurt of precome, which Dean swallows down like a man dying of thirst.

Sam rolls his hips forward and Dean goes with the motion easily, presses his tongue around Sam's cock as it fucks in and out his throat. His eyes are dark with heat and when Sam fucks in again, Dean slips his tongue between Sam's cock and his foreskin for a too-brief moment of ecstasy, and then bobs up and down along the shaft. Sam lets him take control over the blowjob back, and Dean slides Sam's cock down the back of his throat. It's all tight, wet, heat, and Sam has to shut his eyes against the sight. Dean pulls off his cock and starts on the little kitten licks, down the thick vein on the base of Sam's cock until he reaches Sam's sac. He mouths at the loose skin there and then ducks his head down and sucks one ball into his mouth.

"You love this," Sam says, voice filled with wonder. He tightens a fist in Dean's hair and pulls Dean back onto his cock and starts fucking him, thrusts long and slow so his cock slides all the way down to the back of Dean's tongue with each motion.

Dean whines around his cock and without warning, Sam's done. He slams his cock into the back of Dean's throat and stays there, shooting what feels like an endless stream of come down Dean's throat. Dean swallows eagerly, and his throat milks a few extra spurts from Sam's cock, almost painful as the sensation sharpens. He drags Dean off his cock as it slowly softens, until just the head is still in Dean's mouth, stretching his lips wide. They're red, swollen and fucked out, and Sam doesn't mind the view one bit as he waits for Dean to open his eyes.

Dark lashes drag upward to reveal his blown-out eyes; he looks like he's been drugged. Dean blinks a few times in an effort to come back to himself, and just as it looks like Dean's conscious enough to really remember what's going on, Sam pisses into his mouth, right on his tongue.

Dean's eyes fly open in shock and he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose before he's moaning and swallowing around Sam's cock, desperate. He suckles on the head of Sam's cock long after he's drained dry, until Sam's too-sensitive cock protests the contact. He withdraws his cock from its new favourite home and rubs it along the rim of Dean's fuck-swollen lips, pleasure-pain shooting through his overtaxed nerves, and then moves his hands back and cups them over Dean's grip on his hips, sealed to Sam like they'd been nailed there. He peels Dean's hands off slowly and cringes; he's going to have bruises there come morning.

Sam shifts his grip to Dean's elbows and drags him upright, pulls Dean flush against his chest. Dean's still damp from Sam's piss, and his boxer-briefs rub against Sam's jeans roughly. Sam slides one hand around to grip Dean's ass and plunges the other inside Dean's wet shorts, notes that Dean's clean-shaven down there, and wraps his hand around Dean's cock. It doesn't even take one pull before Dean's creaming himself, body jerking wildly against Sam's. He curls his body into Sam's, hides his face in Sam's shoulder, and sobs as he comes.

Dean collapses against Sam's strength and Sam adjusts his grip to hold him up. He rubs one hand across the small of Dean's back and considers his options. The nearest bed is just a little too far out of reach to collapse onto it from their position, and Dean seems too out of it to make it there under his own power. Sam shrugs to himself and bends down and lifts Dean easily over his shoulder, walks the few steps to the bed, and dumps Dean on it.

Dean scrambles back on the bed once Sam drops him, eyes wide, and Sam rolls his eyes and slips his fingers under the elastic waistband of Dean's boxer-briefs and drags them down and off Dean's legs, and throws them on top of the tarp.

Then he does the cleanup.

Dean watches him suspiciously for a few long moments and then exhaustion wins out and he drifts off to sleep, curled naked and vulnerable on top of the bed. By the time their mess is taken care of, Dean's shorts dumped unceremoniously in the trash, Dean's snoring lightly on the covers.

Sam gets dressed. He looks at the door and then back at Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed and touches Dean's face, gently, and Dean comes away with a jerk, fear flooding his eyes for a long second before he recognizes Sam. "Hey," Sam said.

"Hey," Dean parrots. He looks nervous, unsure. The tension from earlier lurks in the back of his eyes.

"I'm gonna go," Sam says. He draws his hand back and drops it lightly into his own lap. "I just wanna ask you, before I go—what's a guy like you doing looking for sex on Craigslist?"

Bitterness floods Dean's eyes and he sits up, moving so there's some distance between them. "You mean someone so hot," he says.

Sam tilts his head, shrugs. "Well, yeah. You don't need to pay someone a few hundred bucks if all you want is to get pissed on. It's a lot more common than you'd think." He grins. "Believe me, I'd know."

The open vulnerability vanishes completely. "Maybe not all of us can ask for this shit from someone they know," he says.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Looking like you do? I'm pretty sure you could ask anyone, and they'd say yes."

Sam can _see_ the walls come up behind Dean's eyes. "Look, I'm a model, okay? You can't ask for this shit without it affecting your work, and it's all I'm good for, so I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep working. And it's not your business, anyway. Transaction over, thanks very much, don't let the door hit you on the way out."

"I'm just trying to help," Sam says, insulted. He hesitates for a moment. "You didn't seem—okay, when I came in. And I could have been anyone."

Dean shrugs and looks away. He crosses his arms and doesn't say a word.

Sam sighs in exasperation. "Whatever. It's your business." He stands up to leave, then hesitates. "Look, you have my number, right? You need help, you call me. I've got another job, so don't mind if I don't pick up. I'll call you back."

"'M not gonna keep a hooker's number in my cell phone," Dean mumbles. He's still refusing to look at Sam.

Anger and shame churn unhappily in Sam's guts. "Fine." He pulls the stack of money Dean handed him earlier in the night out of his pants pocket and throws it on the bed. "Now we're just two people who fucked. You need help, you call me. I'll come. Okay?"

Dean stares down at the bedspread, and then raises his eyes to Sam's. He looks like damaged goods; it's like looking in a mirror. "Okay." He curls himself into a ball and ducks his head into the cradle of his arms. "Thanks. Now get out."

Sam hesitates one last time, and then he leaves.


End file.
